


A Devil of a Time

by clementwillow



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21714568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clementwillow/pseuds/clementwillow
Summary: To avoid their brother, Atlas goes on a quick date with an affectionate devil.
Relationships: The Affectionate Devil/Original Fallen London Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	A Devil of a Time

**Author's Note:**

> I opened this account three years ago but was too much of a coward to post anything until now.

A low whistle of sourceless stray wind drifts through the subterranean caverns and jolts Atlas from a nap. They lurch out of bed with a start, still bruising from last night’s duel on the docks. Life is becoming dangerous for Atlas, but every moment spent in the safety of their home left them restless. Atlas throws their head back into their pillow. Something crinkles beneath Atlas’s head as they attempt to find a more comfortable position. It is a letter from their brother. Atlas thumbs at the carefully stamped seal and chips away at the wax. Instead of opening it, they toss it on their desk and blot out a response to another letter they received a few days prior: 

_ I shall be delighted to meet you in person. Tonight, if you are able. _

  


The Long Spoon – a sweltering establishment whose glow is only outshined by the Brass Embassy itself. Atlas can feel the sweat beginning to bead along their brow from under layers of silk and cotton from their evening dress. They give a few brisk nods to the darkly clad devils and devilesses that rove the streets before their eyes fall upon their target. A devil stands outside the Long Spoon’s amber light, tall and broad-shouldered with a lopsided bowler hat that fails to conceal his left horn. His mirror-polished shoes click against the pavement impatiently until he spots Atlas. He grins as they approach. Atlas no longer is perturbed by smiling devils. Oh, they are long past this point. 

The devil takes Atlas’s hand and kisses it. They almost recoil from the burning imprint of his lips on their skin, but it is only a phantom sensation. He leads them by the hand to their reservation – a round table in the center of the room just below a chandelier made of brass pipes twisted into a lotus. They are seated in gold cushioned chairs that are tall and stiff like thrones. With two fingers, the devil slides the candelabra centerpiece slightly to the left and examines Atlas under the long lashes framing his glowing eyes. Atlas gazes back.

“You have not changed since your Embassy days, I see.”

Atlas recognizes the silky sweetness of his voice at once. What was once a disembodied voice traveling through a telephone wire at the Brass Embassy now sits before him. He was one of the higher-ups who occasionally made strange small talk to while away the hours. “Mr. Conrad, I did not imagine it was you behind those letters.”

Conrad removes his hat and sets it aside, running a hand through his slicked-back hair. “Don’t bother with the formalities, my dear. We no longer work alongside each other.”

“Certainly,” says Atlas after taking a delicate sip of their wine. “Before I forget, I have a trifling gift for you.” Atlas procures a small emerald bottle somehow both warm and cold to the touch. The devil eagerly accepts the bottle of souls.

“A most excellent gift!” Fangs flash from under his lips. “These souls will do well in my collection.”

The rest of the meal passes in soft murmurs. The overdone steak and fine wine are consumed over the two hours of delightful and stimulating conversation. Occult philosophies, shaky religions, and bendable science. All topics Atlas is more than familiar with discussing with people of prominence. More than once, Atlas catches Conrad’s lingering gaze – hungry and wanting. For what, they wonder. Atlas has been fortunate (or unfortunate) enough to be on the receiving end of many passionate gazes, yet they did not know what the devil’s intentions were. Certainly, a devil could not desire companionship. Such assumptions are what make humans foolish enough to manipulate out of their souls, and the devil does not seem to think that Atlas is a fool.

“Conrad, I must confess that while I am flattered by your invitation, I am aware that you work with many in the Embassy that may pique your interest. Why approach me?”

Conrad hums in deliberation. “Stay in my company long enough and you may find out.”

Atlas cocks an eyebrow but remains silent.

Conrad pats his lips with a napkin, places it on his dish, and graciously pays for the astoundingly steep bill. Ah well. The dashing devil may be on the more dangerous side of untrustworthiness, but he knows how to lead a sumptuous life. Atlas can respect that. 

“I may be satisfied with the meal, but I cannot say I’ve had enough of you,” says Conrad. “I stay at the Royal Bethlehem if you care to join me tonight.”

A hand on his arm, Atlas makes their way to Conrad’s lodgings. Drips of condensation fall from far above and onto the dark streets intersecting Moloch Road. If Atlas closes their eyes, it seems like just another nightly walk on the Surface, but they do not dare stop looking out for danger. In the corner of their eye, Atlas spots a head turn in their direction. A man in a tan suit is hunched over in a chandler’s awning in Atlas’s direction. Could it be Menoetius? Impossible. Still, they watch from behind the tall devil’s shadow. Under the slicked black hair, the man’s eyes are bloodshot, hands trembling, skin pale. Although it had been a long time since Atlas had seen his brother, they could not fail to recognize his strong nose and widow’s peak. For a moment, Atlas feels a twinge of regret that they responded to a devil’s letter of admiration rather than a message from Menoetius. After they pass, Atlas interlaces their hand with Conrad's to which he acknowledges merrily. They arrive at the raucous Royal Bethlehem not before long. 

The smell of Conrad’s chambers fills Atlas’s senses. It smells of leather and oil and rose. Candles are lit and permeate a sticky heat in the room. Conrad strides over to the window. His form casts a long, monstrous shadow over the carpeted room. He shuffles for a moment in a nearby drawer and whips out a silver tray of finely rolled cigars. Conrad takes one, lights it, and gives a sidelong glance to Atlas while taking a long draw. The sound of his self-satisfied exhalation makes Atlas’s breath feel hot. They join him at the window, feet moving silently across the carpet.

Atlas does not pull back when Conrad’s lips taste their own. The sensation is fiery, sulfurous, blistering. Conrad’s hand slips down the back of Atlas’s head and then tightens around their dark locks, carving into their skull with sharp talons. Atlas peels their lips slowly from Conrad’s kiss. His arm still coiled around Atlas’s waist, Conrad passes over his cigar.

Atlas accepts the cigar and puts it to their lips. “What does a devil want from me? I once believed they only lusted after those with pure souls.”

Conrad chuckles. “You have a soul, yet you act like a devil. That is what draws me to you. How far will you go, my dear?”


End file.
